The Daughter of Steel
by Karateka67
Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.
1. chapter 1

The Daughter of Steel

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: Soooooo I'm about 63 years too young to own the Hobbit, TLotR, or any subsequent story...I'm also not Peter Jackson. I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters.

Confession: Guys, gonna be honest. Luke Evans totally made me abandon my moral code and vote for Gaston for at least 78% of the movie...

Note: I can't remember if it mentioned who Bard's parents were so I'm making them up. Sorry guys.

Chapter I - The Lake Town

"Where are your escorts?"

The quiet woman stared down from atop her steed at the man who questioned her. "I have no escorts."

It was unlikely for a young woman to travel alone, there was no question. Nevertheless, she offered no explanation.

The man narrowed his wise eyes at her. "You could be lying."

"What matter is that if it is only I who seeks passage? My escorts would have to stay behind." Her demure gaze followed the bargeman as he inspected her.

Finally, he smiled kindly. "It is none of my business, only—you would be on my barge, entering my village. I'd rather be careful who I admit to my home."

The woman gracefully alighted from her horse and bowed deeply. "And you are not at fault for it. I have no money, nor proof of my station. I pledge only my service to you for fourteen days. I shall do anything you ask."

The man's expression lifted in surprise. "That is a curious delay."

"My travels can spare the time. I would be grateful for your help." The woman bargained, watching his sharp blue eyes roam her weapons.

"I am inclined to oblige you. May I ask why you are so heavily armed?" He couldn't count the knives that he saw, and there were two swords among her things. A third was strapped around her waist.

"My father is a smith. I carry wares to sell or deliver." The woman responded.

After a few more moment's thought, the bargeman invited her and her steed upon his barge.

"I am Benjamin." He proclaimed, grasping her arm firmly in introduction. "And you are?"

"Micaiah." She supplied simply, her eyes on the water.

"You would do well to smile, Lady Micaiah, when arranging for the service of others. Softens them up a bit." Benjamin chuckled softly, returning his grasp to the rudder.

Micaiah looked at him. "I seal deals with honesty."

Benjamin glanced at her. "Smiles can be honest."

She set her jaw. "I've yet to see it."

Benjamin took her words silently, sensing a dark and painful past behind her. She was an interesting lass, that was certain.

He'd never seen a woman so prepared for a fight. He'd never seen a woman alone like she was.

"My wife works for the Master, you see. He's in charge of Lake Town. We see her once every two weeks." Benjamin shook his head darkly.

Micaiah's sharp eyes returned to him questioningly.

"I have two children. One is less than a year. The other is seventeen. I need your help keeping house. My boy, Bard, needs to be out working, being a man. I don't like leaving him to care for his sister. And he can't cook a scrap. If you would help us for your two weeks, I would be very grateful."

Micaiah bowed her head. "Anything you say, I shall do." She swore.


	2. The Bargeman's Son

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: Considering I'm here on the internet and not out spending money, we can safely draw the conclusion that the Hobbit and LotR do not belong to me. I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters.

Confession: Because I live on a farm in the middle of nowhere with a ton of animals to keep me busy, I've decided to write 10-chapter stories. It makes it easier for me to commit to writing all the stories I want to write.

Note: Sooo Legolas comes up. Tauriel doesn't so much because she's more Captain of the Guard than Legolas' friend.

Chapter II - The Bargeman's Son

The house was small, wooden, and smelled of fish, much like the rest of Laketown.

Benjamin looked embarrassed at the state of it, and awkwardly picked his way over piles of clothes and sacks of meal, ducking under hanging vegetables.

"It's a mess, surely, but I'll have Bard help you pick up before he leaves. It's a small house, you can see the kitchen. We wash clothes down there and I'll bring food in the evenings for supplies so don't worry about that. Come, meet my children." He ushered the young woman through an open doorway and beat loudly on the post.

"Bard! Where are you?"

Micaiah let her gaze wander. She beheld the clutter comfortably, put at ease by the lived in look. Truly they were a family, and she was content to help them.

It had been a long time since she'd had to cook for anyone else.

"A few minutes, Da!" A man's voice returned from somewhere downward.

Benjamin waved his hand in frustration. "Let's get you squared away then. You'll be sleeping—"

"Pardon me, sir." Micaiah interrupted. "But my horse has traveled hard today. If you don't mind, I would like to cool him down and feed him."

Benjamin looked thoughtful for a minute, then hobbled on stiff legs back toward the door. "Aye, lass. Put the horse in the pig sty below the house. There's timothy in there, sure enough. Put your wares and his tack in your room—I'll show you where."

Micaiah bowed gratefully. "Thank you, sir." She stepped out onto the deck.

Benjamin grimaced. "I'll be out shortly. Do as you will."

Micaiah followed his word and stepped out, swiftly descending the stairs and finding her steed where she had left him.

His name was Mylanry. He was a big, black stallion full of endurance and strength. Given to her by the elves, Mylanry was among their finest trained horses.

Micaiah strode to him and began to strip him of her weapons and supplies, laying them in a bundle at her feet.

Mylanry sighed heavily in relief as the weight fell from his back and she set to pulling his tack off.

Micaiah stared at his ebony coat with a solemn gaze. Her childhood friend Legolas had taught her how to care for him. He'd shown her how to keep that shine in Mylanry's coat.

That had been years ago.

Micaiah dropped the tack with her supplies and took a swath of Mylanry's mane, guiding him into the pig sty that was built beneath the house.

"You've had worse, eh, beast?" She murmured gently, stroking his neck firmly. "We'll help them and be on our way. Bear with me."

Micaiah left her beloved horse and gathered up her heavy gear.

As she was collecting it, a voice behind her said: "I'm to show you to your room."

Micaiah's eyes slid upward as she balanced her heavy load, her gaze falling upon a handsome young man, tall and lean, with dark hair and deep green eyes.

It was curious, how he was so young but his face was lined with age.

Nonetheless, Micaiah curled her head in a bow. "My lord," she greeted.

The man reached for her burden. "Give me those." Before she could argue, he had relieved her of her saddle and weaponry and turned his back on her.

Micaiah's jaw tightened.

She would never grow accustomed to the difference between the courtesy of Man and the dignity of Elves.

Legolas and his father were not in the habit of offering her a bit of strength.

In the end, King Thranduil had maintained his guise of pride, while Legolas had succumbed to her Human manners.

Without a word, Micaiah followed the man back up the stairs and through the small house.

In a room partitioned merely by a curtain stood a bed and a small chest. The man gently set her things on the floor and turned to her.

She let her eyes fall respectfully.

"I'm Bard," he introduced himself simply.

She bowed. "I am Micaiah, my lord, at your service."

"Aye. I heard. My father tells me you're to watch over my sister. Come; meet her." Bard stepped around her and held the curtain back.

Sweeping her hair back behind her ears, Micaiah ducked beneath the partition and waited for him to lead her to the child.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"Your father's swords are truly the finest." A young man praised, inspecting the silver blade. He had ice blue eyes, pale skin, ivory hair, and sharply pointed ears.

The raven-haired girl before him narrowed her eyes. "That is my blade, Legolas. I forged it myself."

The Elf Prince's eyes scanned the hilt until they fell upon her signature - an embossed hoof print the size of a thumbnail.

"So it is. My mistake." He smirked at her and put the sword back on the desk in front of her. "What is your price?"

Micaiah pushed the sword at him. "My prince, Legolas - the sword is yours." She bowed her head reverently.

Her childhood friend grinned at her. "Your kindness exceeds that of any I've ever seen." He commented, feeling the weight of the weapon.

A smile found Micaiah's face. "Do not attempt to charm me with flattery, friend. It bounces off my skin with no affect."

Legolas's expression turned to a casual grin. "Come, Micaiah. Ride with me." He gestured behind him, where his gray steed stood alongside her black.

Micaiah hesitated, glancing around the market place. "I can't." She argued. "I'm working."

Legolas shook his head at her. "Your father is on his way back as we speak. Come, Micaiah, please."

Micaiah's smile returned and she put the sword under the counter, locking it away.

With the grace of an Elf, she leapt over the counter and followed him to the horses.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"Ah, Micaiah." Benjamin greeted as they entered the living area. He extended his arm to her. "This is Sigrid."

Micaiah stepped forward to see the child, and her eyes fell on a bit of pink skin. Moving closer, the skin became an arm.

The raven-haired woman knelt and moved back the blanket that was covering Sigrid and felt her heart melt instantly.

With a soft expression she gazed down at the sleeping baby. She was slender - too slender for a baby - with delicate eyelashes and hair that curled across her forehead. Her skin was pink and unblemished, her rosebud lips gently placed in her round face.

She was beautiful.

Micaiah told them so.

"Aye, that she is." Benjamin agreed proudly. "Now get some sleep, lassie. We rise early."

Micaiah nodded and did as he said.


	3. Steel is an Art

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: If I owned LotR and the Hobbit, Tauriel would be an actual character and she would be with Legolas. As it is, I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters.

Confession: I am a spinster. At 17. Because Ancient Roman law states that girls can be married by 12 and boys by 14 with their parents consent. Later law states a girl (at least 12 years old) and a boy (at least 14) may marry WITHOUT their parents consent. Current laws in some US States read the same. I am 5 years older than legal marrying age. Umm...

Note: I know Legolas is old enough to have walked with Jesus, but for the sake of avoiding a perversion of his moral character, I kindly ask that you see him in this story as an Elf in a state of adolescence. Exactly how adolescent is up to you. As we all know, it is impolite to ask an Elf his age.

Chapter III - Steel is an Art

Benjamin left early the next morning after assuring himself that the woman in his home wouldn't try anything fishy while surrounded by water for miles on each side.

Bard, however, was less sure. He watched his father prepare to leave with a tight expression.

He'd not spoken, wary of their sleeping visitor, but made certain that his father was aware of his discomfort.

Before leaving, Benjamin squeezed his son's shoulder. "We need her help, Bard. It's your job to provide—not to mother your sister."

Bard fought the urge to shake his father's hand off. "It's your job to provide." He argued. "Ma abandoned us. Taking care of Sigrid is my job."

Benjamin frowned, pleading with Bard to understand. "It shouldn't be."

"There is no shame in caring for a family!" Bard hissed.

"No, my son. No shame at all. But just as your mother left and taught you the hard way how to feed yourself and care for a child, so too will I one day be gone. I don't want you to too late have to learn to work for the bread. Learn now. This opportunity is a God-send. The girl will keep house and raise your sister for two weeks. After that, she will be returned to your care."

Bard, albeit begrudgingly, nodded. "Aye, Da. I know." The dooming thought of one day being without both of his parents weighed heavily upon him.

It happened to everyone, did it not?

"Take care, son." Benjamin bid him farewell and set out for his barge.

Bard sighed heavily, staring after him for only a moment before turning to face the curtain partition that separated him from the new girl who was to take his sister out from under him for fourteen unsupervised days.

His jaw tightened. "Micaiah?" He called quietly.

When he received no answer, he pushed back the curtain. "Micaiah." She lie, wrapped in a thin blanket, completely oblivious to the world of the awake.

Bard moved closer, laying a single hand on her shoulder. "Micaiah."

She was awake in an instant, her sharp green eyes snapping open and her hand shoving his away.

He backed off, narrowing his eyes at her.

Upon taking stock of her surroundings, Micaiah relaxed and pulled her blankets around herself. "Apologies, my lord." She murmured.

"It is time to feed Sigrid." Bard informed her, his deep voice sounding miffed by her reaction. He turned away. "And stop calling me that."

Micaiah watched him leave before dropping the blanket around her waist.

Why Men insisted on growing angry at women who instinctively protect themselves was beyond her.

Her experiences with Man were few, surely, and her experiences with males of any species were even fewer, but she still struggled to understand them both.

Man would treat a woman as though she were either too weak to lift her load and thereby carry it for her, or too subject to do anything but the heavy burden of house work and child rearing.

Elves treated women as though the choice to become a warrior or a worker or a hunter was just as important as choosing to remain in the home and raise children.

And males just couldn't decide whether to respect strong women or hate them. It didn't matter which species he was.

Nevertheless, Micaiah stood from her pallet and reached for her gown, belting it on over her heavy undergown.

She stepped into the living room to find Bard waiting for her. He was already dressed, hair tied and boots on while she let her locks flow free and her feet remained bare.

He glanced at her, noting that she wore the same clothes that she had worn the day before. "How was your rest?" He asked cordially.

"Cold." She answered, lifting her chin to meet his easy gaze. Her soft voice seemed to smile where her mouth did not. "I've never felt such cold before."

When Bard frowned at her in confusion, she explained: "I hail from the Woodland Realm. By comparison, the land there never meets winter."

Bard smiled at her discomfort, wondering what it would be like to live in a perpetual summer. "We have one or two coats that you may borrow if you wish. By comparison," his eyes twinkled at her. "This is quite a warm day."

Micaiah gazed forlornly at him. "And I've pledged myself to this frozen wasteland for two weeks." She moaned.

Bard stiffened, instinctively defensive of his homeland. "It's no wasteland, lass." He corrected stoutly. "It's home to a great many good folks. She has charm all of her own. You'll see."

Micaiah nodded obligingly. "Indeed, my lord." She murmured apologetically.

Bard huffed at her and turned away. "Come. You must wake and change Sigrid."

Micaiah hurried to do his bidding. She stopped before the cradle and stared inside, heart pounding.

The child was beautiful.

Longing to feel the weight of the precious bundle in her arms, Micaiah leaned down and scooped baby Sigrid to her chest.

She was warm and solid and just the perfect side to be nestled against Micaiah's chest. The young woman's heart flooded with adoration.

The baby sighed softly, like butterfly wings brushing Micaiah's throat.

Bard watched, trying to ignore the strange feeling that curled in his gut as he watched the strange curl embrace his baby sister.

He told himself it was protectiveness - a jealousy that made him wish to push the girl aside and care for Sigrid himself.

Hadn't he proven that they didn't need her? That they didn't need their own mother? He had grown helplessly attached to his baby sister, and he needed no one to help him care for her.

As it were, Bard spun on his heel. "Her change of clothes is in here." He knelt in front of a clothes chest.

Micaiah's gaze followed him, gleaning information with which she would live the next fourteen days.

Her heart lurched as the baby placed her little hand over the swell of Micaiah's breast, hungry.

Micaiah looked down at her, her face hot. She grasped Sigrid's hand and gently pulled it away, glancing down at Bard.

Thanks be to God, he hadn't noticed.

Her eyes fell sadly to the child in her arms. How long had it been since she had nursed? How hungry must she be to recognize any woman's breasts as the home of warm milk, regardless of whether or not the woman was Sigrid's mother?

Would that I had the milk, Micaiah silently promised the baby. But alas I do not.

Bard returned to her with a change of clothes for the baby, raising an eyebrow at her flushed face. "Are you alright?"

Micaiah took the clothes. "Perfectly so." She assured him. She set to changing the baby, wincing as she had to bare poor Sigrid's skin to the cold air of early morning, but made haste in cleaning the child and bundling her once again in fresh cloth.

Together, Bard and Micaiah cleaned up the living room. Bard over saw that she could make a fire - and she could - before Micaiah focused on fixing a breakfast for the three of them.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"You cannot run off after the presentation." Micaiah's father, Micah, ordered firmly. "I need your help today."

"Do not forbid her, Micah." Micaiah's mother argued. "It is the Prince who engages her. We are guests in this Realm. If we are to remain in good standing with the King, we shall not forsake the Prince."

Micaiah nodded brightly, giving her father a pleading smile, ever hoping that he would listen to Tilda.

But Micah scowled at his wife. "He may be the Prince, but he is still a young man who insists on taking my daughter out from under my nose at all hours of the day. I need her with me, working, not to mention—"

"He is a fine young man, Micah. He has taught her to ride and fight, and he does not forsake her as the others do." Tilda responded calmingly.

"I don't care if he is her only friend, he cannot treat my daughter as though he were married to her." Micah responded stiffly.

Micaiah's cheeks flamed. "Father!"

Tilda ignored her daughter. "Micaiah is 12, my love. She is already marrying age. What have we to lose in this? Prince Legolas is honorable and kind. He can care for her. He can protect her. They have all of the resources in that castle to safely raise a family."

Micaiah backed away from her parents. "What? Mother, stop—" she shook her head despairingly. "Legolas and I would never—"

Marry Legolas? Have his children? Raise his family?

Was this what they had in store for her?

"Micaiah can never marry a Prince, be he Man or Elf. She is too lowly, too common. And besides that, I'm not ready. Get behind me, woman, this discussion is over." Micah concluded resolutely.

Tilda narrowed her dark eyes at her husband but did as he told her, obediently letting the subject slide.

The small family unit reached the courtyard in good time and Micah reached into his cart for the two swords that they would be presenting with.

He handed one of them to Micaiah and backed into the center of the square. A multitude of Elves and Men gathered around to watch with interest as Micaiah followed him into the center.

Her sharp eyes gazed around the onlookers, wondering if she would see a familiar face.

She twirled her sword expertly, noticing one or two Elves that she had seen around a few times.

But there was no one in the crowd who truly cared to see her fight.

Legolas wasn't there, anyway.

With a determined frown, Micaiah faced her father. She twirled her sword once more and then let it settle in her grasp.

The performance was a work of showmanship, not to advertise their skills as warriors. It was all to sell the wares.

Micah lunged at his daughter, his sword low and angled for her stomach.

Micaiah side stepped, brushing his blade aside with her own. A wonderful, silvery sound rang from the contact.

Micah turned, regaining his footing. He thrust at her head but she ducked beneath it, clashing her sword against his when she cut at his side.

She hopped a swing at her legs and came down hard at him, three quick, powerful jabs at his chest.

Micah parried each one with incredible grace and pushed her back.

The swords were holding up beautifully - perfectly balanced, impossibly strong, and producing the most satisfying sound a swordsman could hope for.

Micah swung his sword in an unexpected arc at his daughter's head. In a moment of panic, she threw the sword and slid beneath her father's legs, dust billowing up majestically all around her.

With a twist she was on her feet, palm outstretched to catch her sword.

The hilt landed perfectly in her hand and Micaiah had the blade pressed to the back of Micah's neck.

She won.

Quiet clapping filled the square, and Micaiah and Micah stepped away from each other, bowing to their onlookers.

When a very pleased Micah turned to his daughter and touched her shoulder proudly, she was relieved from duty.

Micaiah bowed to him gratefully and returned the sword to their cart.

As she was locking it away, a hand touched her arm.

A smile lit her face. "You should not sneak up on me, My Prince. My reflexes are fast and my blades are sharp." She swiveled on her heel and faced Legolas.

His smile was proud. "So I have seen, Swordsman." He gave her a moment to secure the sword completely and then extended his arm to her, gesturing for her to follow.

Micaiah fell into step beside him. "You watched the performance?" She questioned. "I did not see your face in the crowd."

Legolas's sharp eyes slid toward her. "You wound me, Mellon. Most would say that my beauty shines too bright to be missed." He teased.

Micaiah could not help but secretly agree. "Indeed, my lord. But even a light so bright grows dim in the shadow of a brighter beauty."

An amused grin curved his lips. "And whose beauty is that, I pray?"

Micaiah met his light blue eyes with her dark green and gave him an arrogant smirk. "Only mine, my Prince."

Legolas's laughter was deep and moving as they wove their way between the trees of the woodland.

Micaiah's smile would not fade as she followed, her bare feet toeing through the grass and dirt. Her long skirts pulled at the roots and rocks in their path, but she paid them no mind.

Her mother could worry about her frayed hem later.

Finally, Legolas stopped by the enormous maple tree that had become their favorite. He always said it was because the leaves had taken their color from her eyes, and he liked to reunite her with them as often as possible, lest they forget her and grow old.

Micaiah of course would argue that he had also been robbed - for the ice lilies had looked upon his eyes with wretched envy and stolen their color for themselves.

Legolas paused in front of the very ice lilies that grew in a wild patch at the root of the tree. "I think you must be right." He conceded, casting her a soulful gaze over his shoulder.

Micaiah turned to him, startled by the words. His pale, strong hand rose and brushed back a tendril of her black hair.

"I've n'ere seen anyone glow so brightly as you."

~ Daughter of Steel ~

Micaiah prepared them a breakfast of fish and dried fruit, with a warm goat's milk formula for sweet Sigrid.

Bard sat to eat, giving Micaiah's loose hair and bare feet a cursory glance. He said nothing of it, only chewed in silence.

Micaiah set her meal aside to eat later and once more cradled Sigrid to her chest, dutifully filling her belly with the rich formula.

As she held the bottle with the makeshift nipple for Sigrid to nurse, Micaiah sent her own inspecting gaze to Bard. "What work shall you seek?" She asked.

His eyes lifted, his brow wrinkling slightly with the movement. His jaw worked at his food for a few seconds before he swallowed and responded. "I shall attempt to join the hunting party."

Micaiah's interest piqued. "Oh, you are a marksman?"

Bard looked unsure of the eagerness with which she broached the subject. "Aye. I make do with a bow." He admitted modestly.

"A bowman." Micaiah mused wistfully. At Bard's raised eyebrow, she instinctively ducked her head. "Apologies, my lord, for my intrusion. I only envy the skill of archers."

Feeling his pride swell just a little at her words, Bard allowed himself a small chuckle. "As do I."

Micaiah fought the urge to insist that he show her his talents, and resisted the temptation to make him show her his arrows.

"I understand that hunters work from dawn till dusk. Should you not be well on your way?" She questioned lightly, fixing her gaze meekly on Sigrid.

Bard's expression tightened a fraction. "I'll start tomorrow. For today I...I insist on making sure you are secure in our home." He did not mention his hesitance at her sudden arrival, or his mistrust of her.

Micaiah accepted his words and stood from the table, placing the bottle next to her plate. "Unless you have a task for me, I shall see to my horse."

Bard shoved his chair back and set down his fork, hastily chewing his most recent bite. "I'll take Sigrid, then." He held out his arms for his sister, but Micaiah merely moved toward her room.

"No, my lord. If you are setting out tomorrow for a full day's work, you must see that I can accomplish all of my tasks and keep a watchful eye on Miss Sigrid all at once." She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick shawl, and returned to the table.

Bard looked confused. "How are you going to do that?"

Micaiah simply spread the shawl over the table and swaddled Sigrid tightly within it. Then she lifted the bundle and tied it securely to her back.

Surely Bard had witnessed the method among the village women.

She caught his expression and struggled to translate the hesitance that she saw there.

Unbeknownst to Micaiah, Bard found that he could only gaze upon her with awe, his jealousy nowhere in sight. He liked to see her, beautiful and strong, with his sister nestled intimately to her back.

Instead of voicing this, he nodded swiftly. "Aye, that'll do." His eyes fell upon her plate. "Will you not eat?"

Micaiah was halfway out the door. "I will eat when my work is done, my lord."

~ DoS ~ ~DoS~ ~DoS~ ~DoS~

With the precious child on her back, under the watchful eye of Bare, Micaiah cleaned Mylanry's stall and filled his trough. She returned to the dwelling and generated her boredom into productive energy, scrubbing the floors and shining the windows, despite Bard's brief protestation of her needless work.

She found clothes to mend and firewood to gather.

Micaiah drew Bard's interest when she even sharpened the knives with an expert hand before placing them, gleaming, back in their drawer.

When evening came, and Sigrid slept fitfully in her cradle, and Micaiah stood over a pot on the fire, dropping carrot slices into stew, Bard came and stood next to her, a few feet away.

"You worked well today." He started carefully.

Micaiah shot him an appreciative glance. "Thank you."

Bard was silent for a few seconds more, and watched as she turned from carrots and reached for the potatoes that she had prepared.

"You seem quite adept at this work for one so young." He commented.

Micaiah lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I know how to clean a house and thread a needle. I learned much about smithing from my father, and can sharpen a few knives. I can cook one or two meals, and caring for a child is something I learned long ago. There is no trick to it, my lord."

Bard looked around the house. It looked completely different. It was entirely cleaned of clutter, the floors scrubbed until they shone, and the windows resembled sparkling crystal.

There was wood by the fire and the delicious smell of deer stew. The pallets were made and the clothes were clean and mended.

In a single day she had transformed their chaotic mess into a home. He liked it.

He had no idea who this girl was, but he liked how she looked in his house, in the orange glow of evening firelight, with her long hair and bare feet.

She was a stranger, and yet she seemed to belong there.

Micaiah had dropped the last piece of potato into the stew when Sigrid's frantic squall filled the room.

Bard's heart lurched in response and he jumped to go to her, but Micaiah wiped her hands on a rag and stayed him with a single touch to his arm. "I'll go." She said. "Dinner will be ready soon."

Bard paused, fists clenching unsurely. Finally, he edged toward the door. "I'll just get more firewood." He muttered.

There was plenty of firewood. She had collected some that day. But he couldn't stand to do nothing while his sister screamed and he needed time away from the enrapturing stranger.

The door banged shut after him, causing Sigrid to cry more loudly.

Micaiah knelt next to her cradle and reached inside, taking the baby's tiny hand and began to sing.

When Bard returned silently, arms loaded with wood, he found Micaiah singing to a sleeping Sigrid. Micaiah's voice was sweet and beautiful, lulling and comforting.

He gently shut the door.

Micaiah looked up expectantly.

Bard quietly deposited the firewood. "Da has returned for the evening. I saw his barge come in."

Micaiah stood and went to the fire. "Perfect timing then."

~DoS~ ~DoS~ ~DoS~ ~DoS~

Bard's warm hand cupped her shoulder once again the next morning, waking her from her albeit frozen slumber.

She rolled over tiredly, finding his face only a foot from hers. She regarded his rough, handsome features with vulnerable appreciation, dragging her hand through her hair.

Micaiah instantly shut down those thoughts, refusing to let them have their stay.

Bard was lacing his boots when Micaiah emerged from her room. His bow was leaning next to him, his quiver of arrows around his back.

He straightened as she padded toward Sigrid's cradle. "Where were you going?" He demanded.

Micaiah hesitated. "To wake up Sigrid."

Bard shook his head. "You took 14 days out of your journey to help some strangers. Where does your path end?"

Micaiah held Sigrid lovingly to her chest. "I don't know. I just picked a direction and started riding. One day I suppose I'll stop."

Bard looked surprised. "You've just been wandering around? For how long?"

Micaiah rocked Sigrid back and forth tiredly. "About five years, my lord."

Bard shook his head again in disbelief. He took up his bow and his arrows and strode toward the door. "Should my presence be accepted among the hunters, I should be back around the time Da is."

He reached for the door handle, and then stopped. His eyes fell hesitantly on Sigrid.

Noticing this, Micaiah shuffled smoothly across the floor, going to him so that he may bid his sister farewell.

She felt his warm, strong arms brushed against her chest as he lifted the baby out of her arms.

Respectful of his privacy, Micaiah took a step back and cast her gaze to the floor.

Bard pressed his lips to Sigrid's forehead, mumbling softly to her. "Be careful, Micaiah." He said, still gazing at Sigrid.

"I will, my lord."

Bard turned to her and gently returned Sigrid to her care. "I shall return."

And then he was gone.

Micaiah bypassed making herself breakfast and merely fed Sigrid. They had thoroughly cleaned the house the day before, which left her free to do as she wished.

Tying the baby to her back, Micaiah went downstairs and tended Mylanry, and then spent the remainder of the day sharpening her swords and knives, polishing them cleanly for sell.

When the sun began to fall, she returned to the kitchen to cook.

Micaiah cast a blanket across the floor and dropped a few handmade toys on it. She set Sigrid down, and stood back to watch as the baby extended her arms to examine her new surroundings.

When she found that she had more crawl space at her disposal, a beautiful, joyful smile stretched animatedly over her face, her dimples making an appearance.

Micaiah gazed lovingly at her and picked up a bread knife, slicing swiftly through a crust of sourdough.

As the minutes passed, Sigrid tired herself out and fell onto her stomach, deep in slumber.

The sight of the child in her care, so happy to have her own space, so comfortable in her home, made Micaiah's heart glad.

As she cooked, she kept a keen eye on her charge, but she needn't have feared. Young Sigrid was out cold and would not wake.

A few minutes after she pulled the meat pie out of the clay oven, the door squeaked open.

Her sharp green gaze snapped up, her mind instantly going to the knife hidden within the folds of her dress.

But it was only Bard, his strong shoulders low and his face tired. Snow had soaked his black hair, and ice had crystalized around the hem and sleeves of his heavy jacket.

Micaiah put down the tray of bread and padded softly to him, her hands moving to his shoulders and gripping his jacket to remove it.

Bard's breath caught in surprise, only noticing her when he felt the pull of his clothes.

He craned his head around to look at her, but she just nodded to his arms. "Let me take your coat, my lord." She implored softly.

He uttered an inaudible response and worked his tight, cold muscles out of his sleeves.

He paused as she turned to hang it at rack.

When she faced him again, he was weak on his feet, the cold and exhaustion seeping into his bones.

"Let me make you a place by the fire." Micaiah reached for him and took his arm supportively, leading him to the lone chair by the fire.

He did not allow the young woman to take all of his weight - after all, he was young and strong.

She let him maintain his dignity, and kept merely loose contact on his shoulder.

He hesitated by the chair. "I'm fine, Micaiah, thank you."

She bowed and retreated, returning to setting the table.

A second later, his voice made her jump. "Where is Sigrid? How could you let her out of your sight?"

She spun around.

He was standing over her cradle, his face pale in fear. "We trusted you!"

Micaiah pointed to the corner of the room where she had placed the child. "She fell asleep playing with her toys, my lord. I have watched her ceaselessly as I cooked."

His shoulders fell in relief as he spotted his sister, and he moved to her immediately.

Micaiah turned back to her job meekly, only stopping when his presence behind her forced her to. "I am sorry, Micaiah. I spoke harshly."

She faced him with a light shrug. "Do not worry yourself."

He held his sister in his arms, his gentle touch never once stirring her from her sleep.

"I trust you found work with the hunting party?" Micaiah questioned softly.

"Aye." Bard confirmed. "The Lord favored us with our catch today."

Micaiah poured him a mug of hot cider. "I am glad of that, my lord."


	4. No Man Like Her

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: Owning the Hobbit would be admitting to killing Fili, Kili, and Thorin, but in telling you that, I'd have to kill you. I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters.

Confession: I say it now and promise you this - unless I find a perfect mix of Luke Evans and Jensen Ackles, I shall never get married.

Ahem...I had a pretty hard time with this story, choosing between Legolas and Bard. Hope y'all stick with me, however this goes. (Remember, this is chapter 4/10)

Note: My two main concerns with writing this story are: Mary Sue, and Damsel in Distress. Yes, Micaiah is an excellent housekeeper, baby sitter, and knows swords like she knows oxygen. But I've added quite a few little flaws to offset her talents. I hope it's enough to even her out. And, yes, there will be one or two scenes in which Micaiah is admittedly a distressing damsel, but everyone has bad days, and she is definitely not a full time D.i.D. Also, I'm trying not to turn her into a D.i.D just so Bard can save the day. Let me know how I do!

Chapter IV - No Man Like Her

Micaiah once again woke to the warm touch of Bard's hand and the gentle gaze of his green eyes.

He backed away when he saw that she was up, and excused himself from her room.

Micaiah dressed quickly, her fingers nearly too numb with cold to button her dress.

She fought the unladylike urge to stomp her feet to get her blood going, and instead hopped silently around her room, tugging a brush through her tangled hair.

When she emerged, prim and relatively proper, Bard had Sigrid in his arms and was already heating her formula by the fire.

He glanced up as she entered. "Da would like you to go to market this morning for the food supplies. He left the list on the table."

Micaiah crossed the room and picked up the scrap of paper inspecting it carefully. "Aye, my—"

"So help me, Micaiah, if you call me that once more I shall toss you in the embers." He swore with the passion of frustration.

Micaiah stammered, her childhood-learned manners escaping her. "I—" She wasn't quite sure what to do.

"You may call me Bard." The young man strode toward her with a small smile. "It is my understanding that that is what names are for." He stopped before her, looking down at her in a way that Micaiah's girlish heart considered intimate.

She took Sigrid from him with a quiet nod. "As you wish." She moved to collect a bottle.

Bard nodded, satisfied.

Micaiah glanced over her shoulder. "My lord." She added quickly, teasingly.

Bard gave her a darkened glare. "I shall one day have my redemption." He snatched up his bow and strode out of the house.

For the first time in ages, Micaiah wanted to smile.

She did not smile.

She set to her work, feeding and changing Sigrid, and heating water over the fire to wash themselves with. She prepared a meal for midday and packed it away in the corner of a basket.

She fed and cared for Mylanry, and washed what dirty clothes lay in the hamper.

All the while, she felt a gnawing in her chest. The whole time, Micaiah couldn't pull her thoughts away from Bard.

She was ashamed of her childish infatuation with his dark hair, worried brow, and kind eyes. She could have laughed at herself for holding a mental image of his firm mouth and sharp jaw.

Micaiah remembered his kindness with a fluttering heart, his protectiveness toward Sigrid with a soft hum of approval.

She liked him, that she knew.

Foolishly, she may even be smitten with him.

Because she hadn't learned from past experience.

'Micaiah, you stupid girl,' she told herself. 'Relationships don't happen in three days.' After all, the only one she'd attempted to have previously hadn't happened even in 12 years.

She shook her head at herself, collected Sigrid and the basket, with the list and the coins that were beside it, and left the house.

Considering riding Mylanry, Micaiah glanced over the balcony at the town.

Nay, she decided, for she could see the market place from where she stood. It would only be a minute's walk to reach it.

Nevertheless, she knew she would have to get poor Mylanry out at some point and stretch his legs.

She could only imagine the shame of being a majestic horse from the Woodland Realm, having to sleep in a pig sty.

Sigrid cooed happily and wrapped her fist in a strand of Micaiah's long hair.

The young woman braced herself for the child ripping the lock out of her skull, but nothing happened.

She glanced down at the baby in concern, but Sigrid simply held the lock of hair in one hand, her other thumb stuck in her mouth as she gazed out at the world as Micaiah walked.

The child was poison.

She was an acid.

Micaiah could feel the wall around her heart being eaten away by the mere existence of the little girl in her arms.

She wandered the market place, stopping to purchase the items that she had been sent after.

The villagers glanced at her, puzzled and suspicious. They did not recognize her. What's more, they did not understand why a strange woman was caring for Benjamin's child.

She ignored their stares, unbothered by their judgment.

When her shopping was done, her attention was drawn to the black smith's shop, stopping her feet in their tracks.

Her eyes flitted over the various tools until they stopped on the swords that hung on a rack on a near wall.

The smith leaned toward her, his work apron greasy and rank with sweat. "Can I help you with something, lassie?" He demanded gruffly.

His harsh voice drew the interest of a few passersby, who glanced at them and wondered why a woman was handling the purchasing of tools.

"No," Micaiah declined. "I was only looking. I'm interested in your craftsmanship."

The smith narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you know of craftsmanship, pray tell?"

"Cal!" A man's voice came from behind Micaiah. "Treat the lady with a bit of respect, shall we?"

The smith hardly offered the newcomer a glance as the man stepped up to the counter. "Ease off, Percy." The smith snapped. "I just wanna know what a lil girl knows of the crafting of blades."

Percy, a middle-aged man, seemed to understand that he wouldn't be able to get Cal to silence himself and looked expectantly to Micaiah.

She hesitated. Any other day she'd leap to proclaim her heritage.

But she held Sigrid.

A woman who claimed to be a master swordsman was sure to gather unwanted attention. She would be willing to wager she would be presented with a few challenges.

Nevertheless, her pride got the best of her. "I was merely looking for a comparison, Smith." She stated strongly. "I, myself, am a smith."

Cal laughed at her. He leaned back, clutching his gut with loud, heaving guffaws. Tears came to his pinched eyes. "You?" He laughed some more. "Aye, lass, you amuse me."

When he saw that she would not back down, he assumed that she wished to keep up her false story.

Considering himself a fair, indulgent man, he took part in her play with pleasure. "And what do you find in your comparison?" He asked.

Micaiah gave the blades another sharp look. "The comparison is unfair." She concluded. "There is no relation."

Cal shot Percy an arrogant smirk. "How is that?"

"My swords are Elven. They are far more elegant." It wasn't boasting if if was fact. "As far as craftsmanship goes, I commend you, Smith. Your blades are firm and strong."

But Cal was red in the face. "You forge Elven swords?" He demanded in disbelief. "What do you gain by deceiving me?"

Micaiah raised an eyebrow. "I do not deceive you. Blades are my profession."

"Let's prove it, shall we, Cal?" A new voice challenged.

Micaiah sighed, and slid her gaze to Percy.

The new voice was owned by a man who must have been twice her age. "Duel with me, woman." He commanded, eyes falling briefly to the child in her arms. "Give Percy the baby and take up a sword." His dirty, crooked teeth flashed at her. "I'll go easy on you. I'll even stop as soon as you grow weary."

Micaiah was tempted; but Sigrid was in her care, and she could not simply hand her to a stranger.

"I appreciate the challenge." She said through gritted teeth. "I fear I must decline."

The man snorted. "I thought you might." He turned to Cal. "She is false. Give no credit to her words. I would wager she is not honest in anything else, either."

Micaiah knew she was done for as soon as Cal shook his head at her.

Her pride would one day be the death of her.

She turned and put two fingers to her lips. A shrill whistle screamed from her lips.

A second later, there was a loud bang. And then the crashing of hooves galloped towards them.

Over the curve of a bridge appeared an enormous black horse, corded with muscle, fire in his eyes.

The cries from the villagers followed his flight until he was jogging to a stop in front of his master.

Percy and the challenger skittered back in terror as the stallion snorted excitedly.

Micaiah gently removed Sigrid's fist from her hair and let Mylanry take the baby's scent. His soft breath whuffled over Sigrid's face, eliciting giggles.

Micaiah gently put the baby in the basket atop the vegetables and placed the whole thing on the ground beneath Mylanry's nose.

She turned to the startled townsfolk. "If anyone but myself goes near the child, I swear to you, the stallion will take your hand. Consider yourselves warned." She faced the man. "Give me a weapon, Challenger, and face me."

The man was excited. He retrieved the swords from the wall and motioned for the gathered people to stand back.

Without warning, he threw one sword.

There was a resounding gasp from the onlookers as Micaiah simply extended her hand and caught it.

The sword was heavy and disproportioned compared to the Elven blades that she was used to.

Nevertheless, she twirled it with ease and faced her opponent. "Tell me your name, Swordsman." She ordered.

Her challenger made a sweeping bow. "Reuben, my lady, at your service."

Micaiah twirled her sword once more. "My dear fellow, I fear you are merely at my mercy."

She waited for him to strike first.

He leapt forward on nimble feet, his sword poised expertly.

Micaiah simply stepped aside. The blade meant for her heart stabbed at thin air. She sent a backhanded swing at his back, nicking his arm just a little.

He spun around and evidently decided not to lunge anymore. Not only was he swift and well-learned, he seemed to be a strategist.

When she stepped forward, he stepped aside.

When she twirled, he ducked and stuck out his leg to trip her.

Micaiah deftly hopped the obstacle and clashed her sword against his—once—twice—three times until he had been forced toward the outer edge of their clearing.

She stepped back, waiting to claim her win, and let him recover.

He came at her smoothly with a practiced jab at her face, going in for the kill.

Micaiah dropped to her knees and placed a skin-deep laceration along the backs of his calves before twirling herself away and jumping to her feet.

Reuben stumbled, falling to one knee. He took that opportunity to strike at her hip, landing deep cut that instantly smarted.

Micaiah backed off as he regained his footing, feinting a retreat.

When he stood square to her, she raised her sword and charged. Flying through the air like a woman born of the sky, Micaiah angled her sword to cleave his torso from his legs.

Reuben lifted his sword and slammed it down with force that would have ripped her blade from her hands.

But at the last second, Micaiah twisted. Lifting her feet, her momentum carried her until she was planted behind him on his right.

Her cold blade pressed to his neck and she kicked his legs out from under him.

As he fell, his trained grip on his sword faltered.

Micaiah swooped forward and caught it, pressing both swords to his throat - one at the front, and one at the back.

The applause of the crowd was her consensus.

She had won.

Micaiah removed her foot from the back of his leg and twirled both swords, stabbing them tip-down into the soft mud.

She crossed to the front of her opponent and held out her hand. "A good match, Mister Reuben." She conceded.

But Reuben would not allow her to help him up. He shoved her hand away and stood on his own, spitting at her feet. "There's no woman ought to be wasting her time with a man's skill like that."

Micaiah bowed graciously. "Were it exclusively a man's skill, my lord, I would not have bested you."

He scoffed and stormed off. His enraged exodus led him too close to Mylanry and Sigrid. Before he had time to react, Mylanry's head snaked out and he snatched Reuben's wrist between his powerful jaws.

Reuben howled in pain and hung from the horse's mouth, trembling with fury and affliction.

"Mylanry." Micaiah stayed his vicious teeth with an upraised palm. "Release him."

The horse spat out Reuben's limp hand.

Micaiah knew the wrist was broken, but felt little sympathy. If could have been worse. That was the first time the horse hadn't removed the hand from the wrist.

She knelt and scooped up the basket, gathered her skirts, and strode away.

The solid thudding of Mylanry's hooves indicated his loyalty as he plodded along behind her.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"Are you preoccupied?"

At the quiet voice, Micaiah twisted her head around to see Legolas standing in the garden behind her house.

She stood up, gathering young Elohim into her arms. She was caring for him while his mother, an Elven palace guard, worked her two-hour shift.

Micaiah frowned at Legolas. His face bore the same expression that it did every day - soft and pleased to see her - but his eyes were heavy with a weighty burden.

"What troubles you my prince?" She asked gently, approaching him.

Elohim reached for Legolas, but the Elf was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't seem to notice.

Micaiah bounced the young boy on her hip to sooth his hurt feelings.

"I've just come from a meeting with my father." He admitted forlornly.

His words brought worry to Micaiah's heart. There had not been a good meeting between King Thranduil and Prince Legolas in months.

Wary of butting in on matters that didn't concern her, Micaiah did not push him for details.

She did not need to. He had come to her to speak, and he felt no need to delay the information that weighed on him.

"He wants me to marry." He ejaculated bitterly.

Despite the stab of pain in her heart, Micaiah smiled softly. "Who's father wants any less for their child?"

Legolas's ice blue eyes met hers. "Will your father force you to wed?"

Micaiah thought for a long time, bouncing Elohim again. Micah was a firm man who was steady in tradition. He believed that every good girl should focus on marriage before any sort of career.

And yet he made her become a black smith.

"No," she finally decided. "I don't think he would."

Legolas nodded grimly. "Mine will. I have six months to choose my own bride or he will arrange one for me."

Micaiah's heart ached. She pained for Legolas under the controlling hand of his father.

She hurt for the chance that she would never have.

She straightened as though she was alright. "Would that I were an Elf so that I could speak to your father and have him consider my words."

Legolas sat in the grass next to her. "Don't wish change upon yourself." His eyes softened. "You never need to."

Micaiah's wide eyes turned on him. She stammered for a second, mouth dry. Finally, when words refused to rescue her, she set Elohim down and watched as he crawled toward Legolas.

After a few seconds, she met the Elf's eyes. "Well then I suppose you must choose." She smirked. "Find some poor, unsuspecting Elf girl."

Surprised at her wit, Legolas's mouth fell open and his eyes were alive as he laughed shortly. "I beg your pardon, Human." He shot back, bringing a merry smile to Micaiah's face. "Any woman would be blessed to have me."

Micaiah's eyebrows raised and she nodded, faking earnest. "Indeed, indeed, my prince."

Legolas glanced at her suspiciously.

"After all, what a joy it is to marry someone and then find out that he does not know how to care for his long golden locks, has never held his own fork, and needs help saddling his own horse." Micaiah shook her head wistfully.

Legolas reached over and pushed her shoulder so hard she fell over, making both Micaiah and Elohim laugh.

His own face was full of mirth, but it was short lived.

When she was once again sitting upright, he mourned: "I do not want to be pressured into picking a wife, nor do I want to marry an Elf that my father picks for me." His blue eyes turned to her, such sadness in them.

Micaiah sighed deeply, reaching over and grabbed Elohim's trousers to keep him from scooting off. "But you have to, don't you?"

His downcast eyes were her only answer, but it was enough.

"Who shall you choose?" Micaiah wondered.

Legolas pulled Elohim into his arms. "I have already presented my choice to the king. Alas, my father will not let me have her."

~ Daughter of Steel ~

Micaiah stood before the fireplace nearly four hours later, waiting impatiently for water to boil.

She had put Sigrid down to sleep only minutes ago, and tucked her in securely so there would be no concern of her sneaking out of her crib and cracking her skull on the floor.

Presently, Micaiah wiggled her toes and bounced as she waited.

It was so cold in Laketown. She had utilized one of the heavy coats that Bard had left for her, but it was not enough.

She had wanted to heat enough water to bathe in, but feared the chill of the cool air once she would be done.

At last she settled for a hot cup of tea, but the pot of water seemed to be refusing to boil.

Her legs were prickling with cold, and her nose was nearly frozen.

How people could survive in that village was beyond her. She'd yet to see any of the charm that Bard had spoken of.

Resigning herself to a long wait, Micaiah left the house to get Mylanry some grain. He wasn't used to the cold, either. The grain would get his blood pumping, that was for sure.

But she had only just hit the bottom of the steps when a loud voice called her name.

She looked up just as a powerful force struck her side and she lost her footing.

Heart jumping in panic, Micaiah could do nothing to save herself as she plummeted over the side of the sidewalk into the black, icy lake.

Bard, returning early from his successful hunt, had seen it as he approached the house. Micaiah had been headed for the basement, to her horse, when Reuben, the town drunk, came barreling at her.

Bard had cried her name in warning, but he was too late. Reuben rammed into her with all the force of a vicious bull, shoving her headlong into the icy lake.

When Bard's shout was heard, Reuben took off in the other direction to evade capture.

But Micaiah was still beneath the surface, small splashes in the water the only sign of her presence.

Bard threw down his bow and quiver and sprinted to the edge of the sidewalk, diving in with all the poise and experience of a man who lived around water his whole life.

The freezing water enveloped him like a cold embrace, nearly sending him into shock. As his stinging, narrowed eyes caught sight of her falling form, he knew that it had done worse to her.

Slicing strongly towards the deep, Bard reached for her.

He had seen many people drown in that very lake. Some people could muscle past the cold. Some people went into paralyzing shock. He'd witnessed it too many times.

His arm encircled her waist and he reversed direction, shoving them up towards the surface.

His limbs were growing stiff and his lungs tightened painfully. They would be in a rush to get warm as soon as they emerged.

He broke the surface first. Gasping in chilly air, he dragged Micaiah up after him.

With frozen arms, he hauled them to the edge. Bard lifted Micaiah out first, and then himself.

She lie, frozen, beneath him as he scrambled to her side.

Resuscitate her in the cold? Or take them both inside?

At the sight of her blue lips, Bard scooped his arms under her and lifted her to his chest. On numb feet, he hobbled quickly up the steps and just barely managed to work his frozen fingers around the door latch.

Bard hurried inside, casting a quick glance at Sigrid's sleeping face as he rushed Micaiah closer to the fire.

He lay her on the floor and ripped both their heavy coats off. His shaking hands hovered over her.

She was so still, so stiff.

Percy had told him of her match with Reuben - how she'd beaten the greatest swordsman in town in mere seconds.

How could a girl so powerful be lying so near death on his floor?

He touched her throat. Her pulse was so faint he hardly knew if it was there.

He lowered his ear to her chest. He couldn't hear well enough over his own shaking.

Nevertheless, he pumped it, hoping to get the water out of her lungs. Bard leaned heavily on her chest, up and down, up and down.

"Come on, Micaiah." He grunted, working himself up into a terrified, cold sweat.

He kept pumping, and then leaned over her. Her cold lips were soft beneath his as he breathed desperately into her mouth.

It wasn't exactly a kiss, and it wasn't how he'd imagined it, but he couldn't help but feel a sort of protectiveness toward her.

He pumped her chest again, until—her lungs lurched. She gagged, water spurting from her mouth.

He hurried to lift her shoulder so she could dispel the water onto the floor.

She was still icy white.

Trembling with incredible force, Micaiah curled closer to the fire. She felt her muscles convulse as they tried to get hot blood pumping.

There was someone above her, someone who was cupping her face in cold hands.

Blinking slowly, she waited for her vision to clear.

When it did, warm green eyes stared down at her.

"Bard..." she breathed, and then fell into a fit of coughs.

He jumped to his feet and collected the boiling water from off the fire.

Micaiah, groaning softly, reached her arms out to the fire. It wasn't warm enough.

She was so cold.

Her long wet hair was wrapped around her throat, frozen and constricting.

She just couldn't get warm.

Her fingers were so close to the fire, so close to warmth when—Bard's hands caught hers and pulled them away.

"So cold..." her teeth chattered.

"Yes, well, crawling into the fire is a whole new set of problems, so why don't we leave that one for tomorrow, eh?" Bard teased.

She could hear the chill in his own voice.

"I thought you said you were going to throw me in anyway." She shot back weakly, barely keeping her eyes open. "My lord."

"Aye, lass, but I've changed my mind. Any woman who can give Reuben a taste of his own medicine can call me whatever she likes. Now; if I take you to your room, can you change out of those clothes?"

Micaiah shook her head. "I c-can't even move my hands." She held up her stiff palms to show him. Her fingers were blue and would not be persuaded to move.

Bard sighed. "I can let you sit by the fire, but being in those sopping clothes isn't going to help."

Micaiah gasped in pain as he lifted her and set her in an uncomfortable wooden chair.

"If I mind my gaze," he began firmly. "And wrap you in a blanket immediately after, would you let me get that gown off?"

Micaiah couldn't even blush, her blood was pumping so slothfully. Finally, she nodded shyly. "Just the outer garment."

Bard nodded and dutifully reached for the laces of her bodice.

As she wore no corset, Micaiah felt his fingers' light pressure all the way down to her waist. She shivered and looked away.

Bard swiftly pulled the neck of her dress down and let her shrug her arms out of it. Looping an arm around the small of her back, he lifted her just enough to work the garment past her hips and down her ankles.

He moved away from her as soon as her dress was loose, leaving her in her cotton. It was freezing.

He pulled the thickest blanket from the bed and draped it across his father's chair that sat by the fire. Once that was done, Bard picked Micaiah up once more and set her down in the chair, tucking the heavy blanket in all around her.

"There," he soothed gently. "Feel better?"

"I feel foolish." She mumbled.

Bard handed her a mug of hot tea. She cupped it in her unfeeling hands and breathed in the steam.

"You're not foolish. You've merely fallen victim of a sore loser." Bard uttered. "We've all been on the sharp end of Reuben's sword."

"H-have you?" Micaiah stammered, leaning her head back tiredly.

"Aye." Bard admitted. "But I lost. In my pride, I challenged him to a contest of arrows. In his arrogance he agreed. When I bested him at the bow, he tied me to a tree in the woods. By the time Percy found me, the wolves were gnawing at me."

Bard rubbed his thigh as he spoke, a faraway look in his eye.

For the first time, Micaiah noticed with shame and horror that Bard was as pale as she was, soaking wet and trembling something awful.

"I should have killed him." She mused.

Bard laughed. "Nay. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I still will. But you bested him. I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes."

Micaiah's heart pounded as he swayed. "Never mind that—go get dry clothes on before I have to do for you what you've done for me. I'll admit I'm not as strong as you. It would be a slow process."

Bard laughed dazedly. "Aye." He turned and stumbled to his room.

Micaiah snuggled deep into her blankets, wishing to be warmer. She practically inhaled her tea, feeling it burn a path through her insides.

It was wonderful.

But she feared that it wasn't the fire that got her heart pumping again. Her eyes slid towards Bard's room.

She was loosing herself.

Her resolve to never love was fading.

It shouldn't be. She'd only known him for three days. It was a passing fancy, no more.

But he was kind and he had saved her life. He had revived her with all the tenderness of a loving husband. He had honored her even as he disrobed her and put aside her wet things.

He was a good man.

She could stay a while longer, couldn't she?

But then Bard was returning, in dry clothes. He poured himself a mug of tea and sat across from her staring into the fire.

Micaiah was finally able to feel her fingers. The shaking of her muscles eased. Delicious warmth sank into her bones.

"Thank you." She murmured.

Bard glanced up at her. "What I did was not worth your gratitude."

Micaiah stared at him. "You saved my life."

The young man hesitated. "You're very capable of saving your own life, it would seem." He remarked, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.

"On the contrary." Micaiah refuted. "I cannot swim."

His eyes returned to her. "Oh."

Micaiah nodded. "Oh, indeed."

Her eyes fell on a pile of dripping clothes. "Oh, Bard." She murmured, shooting up from her chair.

He sat upright. "What? What's wrong?"

Micaiah lifted a dark over coat. "Your sheepskin is soaked." She mourned. "It is no good to you like this."

She hurried to hang it closer to the fire.

"Micaiah, leave it." He groaned. "Come warm yourself. Do not be bothered."

She shook her head. "You got it wet coming after me. I won't let you freeze tomorrow."

She hung it by a nail and stepped back. A cold hand caught hers and she looked down in shock.

Bard had his fingers loosely wrapped around hers. "You do this job well, Micaiah. But you must rest."

Strangely, Micaiah longed to fall into his arms. She restrained herself. "Indeed I will." She gave his hand a squeeze and returned to her chair, bundling up in the blanket.

What a day.

When Benjamin returned that evening, his expression was curious as he beheld the garments hanging over the fire, but he offered no comment


	5. A Warrior of Simple Birth

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggings, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: Guys. Let's be real here. If I, as a contemporary author, owned Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, all of you would be at my house for a slumber party with Doritos and Dr. Pepper, watching TV and reading FF. Suffice it to say I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters. I also don't own Hidalgo. If you recognize the reference, then know I added it as a nod to Viggo, AKA Frank Hopkins, AKA Aragorn.

Confession: Hey, homies, guess what I just learned after years of obliviousness? LUKE EVANS IS MARRIED. AND SO IS JENSEN ACKLES. MY HOPES AND DREAMS ARE DASHED. *cough* Whoa. Sorry. Chill out there, me.

Note: And this is the halfway mark. Chapter 5/10. Y'all gotta review and let me know how I'm doing. This is my first Hobbit fanfiction. Help me out here, brothers and sisters.

Chapter V - A Warrior of Simple Birth

Bard let her sleep in longer than usual. When she woke up of her own accord, he was already feeding Sigrid.

Micaiah slipped into a clean dress, relieved to discover color in her fingers and feeling in her cheeks.

She reached for the curtain and paused, hearing a deep, rich voice singing a sweet ballad.

She fell still, entranced by the strong, masculine voice.

Against her will, her knees went weak. Her heart flipped involuntarily.

'Curse you, foolish girl. Are you truly so quick to surrender your heart?' She scolded herself.

Nevertheless, she could have listened to him sing forever.

But when she pulled back the divider, his voice faded into oblivion.

Micaiah went to the living room and immediately checked on Bard's sheepskin coat. It was completely dry, warm and ready to protect him from the biting cold.

She let her eyes move to the table, finding breakfast already made.

Planting her fists on her hips, Micaiah whirled around on Bard. "You should have woken me up." She chastened.

His tired eyes met hers. "I wanted to let you sleep."

She scowled. "It is my job to do what you have done. There was no need for you to postpone your job to let me rest."

Bard paid her no mind. "We start after noon today. One of the hunters I travel with has an appointment this morning." He placed the sleepy Sigrid in her crib.

Micaiah took a seat at the table, watching glumly. She felt guilty. She had pledged her service to Benjamin as payment for his transporting of her across the lake. And yet, Bard still seemed to be doing the brunt of the work.

"I appreciate your care." She said genuinely. "But you strip me of my purpose here. Do not make my presence be in vain."

"You plunged toward the cold grip of death yesterday." Bard returned easily. "Your body went into shock. You needed to recover."

"You were submerged, too." Micaiah muttered bitterly.

Bard smiled. "I can swim."

She rose to defend herself hotly, but fell silent. After all, not a word he had spoken was false.

Micaiah bowed her head. "My lord, I implore you. Raise no hand nor take one step to do the work that I have sworn to your father to do. Focus, I pray, on your own tasks or at least be at rest."

Bard hesitated. "Micaiah, I can—"

She lifted her head. "It is my work to be done. I take pleasure in giving you peace. It is my honor and my duty to make your home a place of comfort and relaxation. Please allow me to continue in my way."

Seemingly sensing her honesty, Bard backed off. "As you wish."

Micaiah eagerly set to cleaning after breakfast. Immediately after doing the dishes, she took up a broom.

"If I may ask—" Bard's curious voice interrupting the rhythm of her work. "Why would a woman who is unmatched with a blade, a woman who has the skill to take up a profession, be so gladly subject to the work of a mere housewife?"

Micaiah brushed the dirt off the bottoms of her feet and sent Bard a sharp look. "Do not trivialize the importance of a housewife's work, my lord. Not all husbands are as quick to do the chores as you are. Most households rely on the woman doing the cooking, cleaning, washing, and child rearing. Very many things are not possible without that."

Bard sat down in the chair, staring into the fire with a troubled gaze. "My household won't be like that." He swore. His chin lifted and his eyes shifted to her. "If anything, you've proven that. If I ever take a wife, I'll never force her to slave for my comfort. I'll never make her raise children alone."

Again, Micaiah wanted to smile.

Try as she might, she couldn't convince herself to allow it.

"A noble notion, my lord. And I am grateful for your kind treatment of me. It is far more than I deserve. But, I must tell you, there are some women who take joy in slaving, as you put it, to bring the people they love comfort. You may not wish to be a burden on them, but believe them if they say you are not." Micaiah commenced once more to sweeping, but moved the brush more slowly over the floorboards.

Bard sat up straight, his expression lost and puzzled. "But you are so strong. Should you wish it, you could wash your hands of this housework and become a soldier and you would be a savior of nations. Why do you give that up to be here? There are no binds on your feet, this is the path of your choosing. Why?"

She felt her heart pounding as she swept the dirt out the door. Her stare rested uneasily on the fire. Tears itched at the backs of her eyes. "If I've learned anything in my wanderings, it is to be grateful to those who help me without obligation. It is my pleasure to repay them a hundredfold."

When he stood, her eyes shifted to him. "Additionally, my mother always wanted me to be a home-keeper. She taught me everything. Honoring that brings me joy."

Micaiah turned and set the broom aside, picking up a laundry basket. "As for my skill with blades - I am not ashamed to be here, doing this work because I know that, should anyone suspect me of incapability,

I need make no false claims to prove myself. Many men see me as weak because I wash dishes with a child on my hip. Men like you know better. It is a sense of security. It has brought me respect."

She moved a small barrel into the middle of the room and began to pour hot water into it from the pot on the fire.

"Many men have been enraged by my skill. I have met quite a few Reubens." She sighed. "But I am happy here. I am serving good people. I have been treated well."

Bard looked unbelieving. "I don't believe I've ever met anyone like you, Micaiah. Not a one."

She felt her heart hum. 'Stop that.' She ordered herself. 'Act your age.'

Then again, she was seventeen. Perhaps she was acting her age.

"Nor I you, my lord. I've never been accepted so easily." Micaiah said as she brought laundry over to be washed.

"I don't see why." He muttered. "Though I must confess I was hesitant to leave my sister in your care. I've grown far closer to her since our Ma..." he drifted off, turning his head toward Sigrid.

"Aye. Your Da told me of her employment under the Master. That must be hard on you, seeing her only twice a month." She responded busily.

"Employment under the Master?" Bard scoffed.

Micaiah looked up at the venom in his voice.

He shook his head in disgust. "Far from it." He wandered to the shelf on the wall and came back with a book.

But he failed to speak more of his ma, despite his violent reaction.

"You may peruse our books at your leisure." He offered, sitting back down and cracking it open.

Micaiah paused, cautious. Her eyes strayed slightly from her work. "Thank you, sir."

For a few minutes, only the sound of fabric scrubbing filled the room. Even Sigrid was silent.

Micaiah felt a blush creep up her cheeks.

"You...you don't know how to read, do you?" Bard realized softly.

She ducked her head. "My mother believed against it. Books are so expensive."

Bard stared at the girl. He was strangely attracted to her—such a strong, fierce girl contrasted by her sweet, serving nature.

He found himself wanting to teach her how to swim and to read and he wanted her to teach him how to wield a sword and craft an Elven blade.

Like a bolt of lightning, his mind was made up.

He'd already hunted well. He'd proved that he could pick up a bow and feed a family. In only four days, he'd caught seven deer and two bucks. When he sold them at market, he'd brought in enough to let them live easy for a month at least.

His father could rest. He was capable and learned.

Bard didn't have to go out with the hunting party every day.

He didn't want to spend two weeks away from her. He didn't want her to be in his home for only two weeks.

He put his book down and listened to the water sloshing for a few minutes.

"Micaiah..." he hesitated. "There's a festival in the village day after morrow."

She glanced up at him questioningly.

"Would you go with me?" He asked strongly.

Her mouth fell open just slightly, shock washing over her face. Shyness overcame her and she ducked her head.

Fear of rejection touched Bard.

"Do you really wish to accompany me all day? In public?" She asked quietly.

Disbelief almost made him angry. "I asked you, didn't I?"

Her jaw tightened at his firm voice. "Yes, my lord."

He sighed and got up, sitting down on the floor next to her.

She stiffened at his sudden appearance.

Bard reached into the soapy water and took her hand. He felt a rush as her small hand remained nestled in his. Her eyes slid up to meet his.

"I want you to go with me." He admitted gently.

She shook her head incredulously at him. "It would be my honor."

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"Go on a head and get water from that ravine there. Bring it back for your father." Tilda ordered, lifting her hands off the reigns to point.

Micaiah looked from the ravine to her father, who was driving the supply wagon with painstaking care.

Sweat beaded on his brow and his hands shook under the heavy heat.

"Yes, mother." Micaiah nudged Mylanry from a walk to a lope, coming alongside the wagon. She flipped the canopy up and reached for the water skin.

Once it was safely in hand, she urged Mylanry to a gallop, quickly overtaking Micah's slow Clydesdale team.

She reached the ravine in mere seconds, whereas Micah would have driven a slow five minutes to get there safely.

Micaiah swiftly dismounted and knelt, digging a pool of pure water that was an offshoot from the small stream that ran through the ravine.

As her warm bands became immersed in the cool water, she glanced back at the wagon.

She and her family were reaching the end of their journey from Rivendell to supply Lord Elrond's men with new blades and pick up new ore.

They were minutes away from Mirkwood. She could see the king's palace and taste the sweet fruit just standing there thinking about it.

More than that, her mind filled with thoughts of her bed and her soft pillow.

When the water skin was full, Micaiah dipped her bare feet in the water before leaping back up to the grass.

She fastened the cork and looped the water skin's strap around her shoulder, vaulting back onto Mylanry's back.

But then she heard the sound of horrible war cries.

Her hair whipped her skin as she spun Mylanry around, her voice already carrying to warn her family.

Alas, she was too late. The orcs had surrounded both her mother and her father, trapping them in a writhing circle of orcs and wargs.

"No!" Micaiah screamed, spurring her stallion into a flying run. She had no sword on her belt, but that would not stay her.

She refused to let her family be victims of a gang of lowlifes hunting for stragglers.

As Mylanry grew closer, she strategized her way in. She had to reach the wagon where their swords were kept.

The orc army of fifty were constantly moving, surrounding her family.

There was no break in their formation.

Her heart pounded heavily in fear as she listened past the thunder of her steed's hooves. She could not hear her father's voice nor his sword.

'The beasts are too loud.' She told herself desperately. 'They drown out the noise.'

Living with the Elves her whole life had equipped Micaiah with a ready knowledge of how to get within the circle.

Leaning low over Mylanry's pumping neck, she breathed, "On my whistle, Brother."

Recognizing the words, the stallion gathered himself without breaking stride.

The orcs looked up in alarm as they galloped ever closer.

They were just within reach when—

A shrill whistle screamed from Micaiah's lips. "Let her buck." She hissed.

Mylanry shoved off of the ground like a dragon taking flight, launching himself straight at the rotating platoon of orcs.

His rear hooves planted firmly in the chest of the nearest orc. When he shoved off, the beast fell from his mount and Mylanry sailed over him into the fold.

Landing with triumph, Micaiah aimed him toward her father.

At the glint of a blade, she extended her hand.

Catching her signal, Micah threw one.

It landed solidly in the girl's hand and Mylanry instantly pivoted.

Tilda and her horse were at their side as they charged the orcs, swords raised.

The orcs met their blades with battle axes and spiked weapons of crude making.

Orc after orc fell, but yet another always took its place.

Micaiah retreated slightly, giving herself space.

On cue, having heard Micaiah's whistle, a battalion of mounted Elven soldiers charged into the clearing, led by Legolas himself.

Roaring in jubilee, Micaiah thrust her sword into the heart of an orc and shoved him aside.

Legolas and his steed came sailing over the wall of opposers, sweeping by her, firing arrows at lightning speed. At Legolas's hand alone, all but five orcs fell.

As he spun in the saddle to take another, a standing orc fired a black arrow.

The flexing shaft flew past Micaiah's nose. Her eyes followed its path until it found its mark deep within Micah's chest.

Tilda screamed, but not of sorrow.

Legolas killed the archer and Micaiah turned on her mother.

She screamed.

Her life became a nightmare. She lost both her mother and her father.

Not a scratch marred her own skin.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

"Micaiah."

"Micaiah."

They were dead. They were gone. Brutally slaughtered before her eyes.

"Hey."

She'd carried her decapitated mother in her own arms through the city gates.

She'd set aflame her father's pyre.

Alone she'd stood, after everyone had gone. Alone she'd cried after she sent them away.

Alone she'd slept in their house, wrapped in her father's cloak, nestled atop her mother's pillow.

It was only Legolas who saved her.

"Micaiah!" A hand gripped her arms gently, the whispered voice desperate and searching.

Micaiah's eyes flew open. Apart from a lone candle, she was in the dark.

In the light of the flickering flame she saw Bard standing above her, the young man's brow wrinkled with worry.

She let herself breathe. "What's wrong?"

Bard stared at her. "You've...you've been calling out." His fingers touched her cheek. "You're crying."

Micaiah rolled over, facing away from him, and let out a deep breath. "I'm fine." She murmured.

Bard's hand left her arm. "If you're sure."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Thank you, Bard." Her hands clenched around her sheets. "Good night."

He moved out of her room, taking the candle with him.

Micaiah tried to close her eyes, but the orcs were waiting for her in her dreams.

When Bard woke her up to start the day, she moved like she had the world strapped to her back.

She sluggishly shoved her hands into a dirty dress. Her fingernails snagged on the seams.

She laced up the bodice and broke a ribbon.

Her hands grabbed a cloak but it fell off when she went under the curtain. She did not retrieve it.

Bard sat at the table, mending an arrow and replacing his bowstring.

Micaiah scooped Sigrid into her arms and rocked her back and forth.

She set the child on her hip and began breakfast. Not a word was spoken between Bard and Micaiah.

Monotonous were her movements as she set the table for one place. Unsteady was her hand as she scraped eggs and salted pork onto Bard's place.

Her voice was finally heard when she hummed softly to Sigrid as she held the formula bottle to her lips and paced on cold feet in front of the fire.

Even the flames reminded her of loss.

There was a gentle thud as Bard set his fork and knife down. "Micaiah. Eat something."

She bowed her head and continued to sway with Sigrid. "Thank you, my lord, but I am not hungry."

Bard scraped the bench back. "I will take her. Fix yourself a plate."

Micaiah's eyes were deadly. "I thought we agreed to mind our own tasks."

Bard's jaw tightened. "The child is my sister, lass. She's no chore. And I do not believe I'm imposing by offering to hold her so you may eat."

Micaiah turned her back to him. "I have said I am not hungry."

"It is your dream, isn't it? It haunts you, even in the light of the sun." Bard murmured softly.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a tear escape. "Twas not a dream, my lord, but a memory." Micaiah shot a look over her shoulder. "You'd best be eating and on your way."

Bard was gone in a matter of minutes.

As soon as Sigrid was ready for a nap, Micaiah went straight to her bed and reached under it for her sword.

For hours she practiced in the living room of Benjamin's house.

She battered and stabbed and mutilated the air as though she could go back and prevent the death of her family.

Her anger persevered until the sword was part of her hand, merely an extension of her arm.

She danced with the blade until her feet moved rhythmically without stumbling.

Hours passed until she couldn't see straight enough to stop herself from cleaving her own hair.

She did not cease until stress dripped from her hot body and the callouses on her hands were rubbed of two layers of skin.

The sword whistled through the air until she collapsed in exhaustion, the sword sitting atop her folded knees.

That was where he found her.

Bard entered the house with his weapons in hand and his jacket and hair covered in ice and snow.

He stamped his boots, but a second later fell still.

With her head ducked to the floor, Micaiah had no view of him.

The cold air rushed through the door and buffeted her hair back, the breeze wrapping around her throat like the cold fingers of pain.

She paid no mind to her fingernails digging into her blade.

Her attention was elsewhere even though she knelt in a pool of her own blood from slicing her arm as she fell.

Bard's ice-covered boots stepped cautiously into view. "Micaiah?" He breathed.

"Five years ago, we were on the doorstep of Mirkwood, journeying home from market in Rivendell." Her usually warm eyes were cold and hard as her brittle voice carried the words. "My father drove a heavy wagon. I went ahead to get him water."

Bard listened silently, hardly moving.

"By the time I turned back, they were surrounded by orcs. Fifty, sixty of them." She looked deadly ill, her face pale and her tone flat as her empty eyes stared at the floor. "I charged from the back of Mylanry and entered the circle that contained my mother and father."

Her head dropped even lower. "I fought. I fought and I fought. The royal guard fought them. We could not stop the arrow that pierced my father's heart, nor the axe that loosed my mother's head."

Bard's bow and quiver dropped unceremoniously to the floor and he knelt to his knees in front of her.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, taking her hands. Her left was red and sticky from the flow of blood, but he paid it no mind.

"I carried them—" Her voice broke and so did her facade.

Bard tugged her forward by the shoulders until she was nestled against his warm chest.

It was not his place.

The intimacy was improper.

Her mother would spontaneously combust at the position they were in.

But Micaiah could not hold herself together with her own two hands anymore. Not in that moment.

With the blade between them, the remained on the floor, locked in a healing embrace, until Micaiah could breathe freely again.


	6. Dancing Away With My Heart

Summary: Before Bilbo Baggins, before Thorin set out to reclaim Eredor, before Bard's children were ever an idea, there was a warrior of legendary skill. She was the daughter of steel.

Disclaimer: I'd like to tell you that I wrote the Hobbit and LOTR...unfortunately the FanFiction Secret Police would be on my doorstep in seconds. I only own Micaiah and any other unrecognized characters.

Confession: Just watched Phantom of the Opera last night and fell in love. Anyone else want Luke Evans to play Erik?

Note: I have a ton of followers...and no reviews? Also, the scenes with her hair and the song are loosely based off of the Hobbit BTS fun. Because kid-Bard is more like Luke Evans than widowed-adult-Bard.

Chapter VI - Dancing Away With My Heart

How long it took them to get on with their day, Micaiah did not know. She remained curled against his chest until the ice on his jacket began to melt.

It was so surreal, what was happening.

She could not fathom the motive for his behavior.

Was it possible for friendships or feelings to bloom in a span of four days?

Did he take her pain upon his own heart because he cared for a stranger?

Micaiah did not ask.

She leaned back, pulling herself out of his arms. The air was cold without him.

Bard frowned at her, still sitting on her knees, her expression blank, her sword in her lap.

He stiffly got to his feet and held out a hand. "Come."

Slowly, so slowly he was not sure she would do it, she slipped her hands into his.

He helped her stand.

"What do you need?" He asked of her softly.

Micaiah immediately began lifting her coat from his shoulders to hang by the fire. "I need work." She responded quietly.

Bard wanted to refuse her. He wanted to make her sit and rest and talk like she was not a work-driven mule.

But he let her work.

She cleaned that which was in no need of cleaning. She cooked more food than they could eat in one sitting.

She polished her spotless sword. She oiled his gleaming bow. She washed fresh clothing and hayed her horse as he chewed on his food from earlier.

Micaiah worked relentlessly, tirelessly until Benjamin came home.

Even then she did not eat, only sat with Sigrid and fed her. After dinner she washed the dishes three times over.

Wary of the change, Benjamin pulled his son aside. "Is she alright, boy?"

Bard's jaw tightened. "She was orphaned in terrible circumstance. She dreamed of it last night and I fear she is punishing herself."

Benjamin frowned compassionately. "Poor lass. Does she do her work, truly? If her heart is before her hands, we can surely release her of her contract."

Bard reacted more violently than Benjamin expected. "Nay, Da, do not be done with her." He whispered fervently. "In heartache she works harder. She has by no means earned your disfavor."

Benjamin took Bard's arm. "Are you alright, son?"

Bard turned away. "I sold two elk at market today. The money's in the wood box."

Benjamin squinted at his son. "That's good, boy. Will you take any of it?"

Bard hesitated. "I already have."

The news surprised the bargeman. "Oh?" The question delved deeper than the words to ejaculate it.

Bard met his father's eyes. "I'm taking Micaiah to the festival tomorrow." He explained.

Benjamin started at the boy's boldness. He'd always known his son was a straightforward man of honest character.

If Bard hadn't wanted to take Micaiah, he wouldn't have asked her.

Benjamin respected Bard's unspoken wish to spend time with the strange girl, and simply nodded. "Very well. I shall entertain Sigrid for the day. Do enjoy the festival, son." He clapped Bard's shoulder and paused.

As Bard was thanking his father, Benjamin was forming a warning. "Never forget the hand you are guiding, my boy. She is an honorable, hard working woman. She is deserving of respect and dignity. Do nothing to take it from her."

Bard bristled, but received the words quietly. "You know I never would, Da."

Benjamin gripped his son's shoulder proudly. "I know, Bard. You never would."

Micaiah was better the next morning. When he moved into her room to wake her, she was already dressed, spreading a forest green dress on her bed and inspecting it closely.

Bard grew uncomfortable at being in her room unnecessarily and began to duck out.

But then she was speaking. "I'll have to patch a seam here and there and reattach some laces. But you won't mind if I wear this, will you?"

Bard stared, quite trapped-looking, at the dress. In all condemning honesty, he'd never been asked to judge women's clothing.

What was she even asking of him?

He seemed to realize that she was worrying about dressing up for him. "There's no need for special measures to be made. But no, I don't think I will mind."

She stared at him with wide, thoughtful eyes, and nodded. "Thank you. I'll be out to care for Sigird promptly."

Bard took his leave, and was rubbing his hands together to quell the nervousness in his stomach when his father walked in with firewood.

It was strange to have him at home and not out on the lake, but Bard did not resent the man's presence.

Benjamin glanced at him with an amused expression, tending the fire quietly. He shot a quick glance at Micaiah's room, hearing her humming softly.

"You really like her, don't you?" He asked in a hushed voice.

Bard started, his arms immediately falling to his sides. "What?"

Benjamin straightened. "The girl. You like her?"

There were a few seconds as Bard debated whether or not to be upfront to his father. Finally, he squared his shoulders. "I do, Da."

Benjamin nodded shortly. "I know you understand that you've known her for just under a week. Do you know to whence she ventures?"

Bard shook his head. "She does not herself know." His gaze fell to the window distantly.

"Perhaps we may ask her to sojourn for a little while longer." Benjamin suggested absently, going to the crib and cradling his daughter in his arms.

Bard looked up, startled. "Da?"

Benjamin smiled and gripped his son's shoulder. "I want the best for you, Bard." He nodded to the partition. "She seems to be the best."

Bard ducked his head slightly.

Micaiah pushed back the curtain, shocked to see Benjamin. "Sire." She greeted in surprise. "I thought you would be long gone."

"I have taken no jobs today." Benjamin informed her. "I decided to stay and take care of Sigrid for the day. I heard you were going to visit the festivities in town."

Micaiah glanced at Bard. She wanted to say that he didn't have to do that, that she would have gladly taken the child. But she did not want to forsake Bard and she did not want to speak as though Sigrid was a burden to her father.

She bowed. "Is there anything I can do for you my lord?"

Benjamin smiled. "Nought at all, lass. If you need us, we'll be visiting Miss Ruth. Farewell and good-day." He nodded to both of them and left the house with Sigrid wrapped in his arms.

Confused without her morning chores, Micaiah let her eyes slide awkwardly to Bard. "I'll...uh...go hay Mylanry then. Unless you haven't eaten?"

He shook his head. "I haven't, but I can wait. I have something to do. I'll be back by the time the dishes are placed."

He moved to the door but she already had his sheepskin coat in hand and was hurrying toward him.

When she held it up expectantly, he turned and worked his arms through it. "Thank you."

Micaiah merely bowed her head in reply and watched him leave, suddenly longing for her hand to rest in his as it had the day before.

But he was gone and her desires were disappointed.

She exited the house, shut the door behind her and toed carefully down the steps. Should her bare feet slip on the ice she would only be thrown into the lake once again and that would be utterly unfortunate.

Slipping quietly into the pig sty, she grabbed the wooden fork and began pitching hay to her black steed.

He nickered gratefully and tossed his forelock out of his eyes. She met his soulful stare with a sheepish look.

His nostrils flared, and it felt as though he was reading her thoughts.

She sagged against him, feeling caught. "I know." She moaned. "I promised both of us that I would never again let loose my heart after the prince."

He nudged her softly.

Micaiah wrapped her cold arms around his muscular neck. "I cannot up and leave. I fear that is the only way to keep my heart." She drew back and kissed Mylanry's nose. "I don't think I want to." She whispered privately.

It felt like she was admitting it to herself. As though she hadn't known until the words were spoken, Micaiah discovered within her a very simple truth:

Be he friend or love, Bard was welcome in Micaiah's heart.

As promised, Bard walked in as she was pulling the dishes out of the cabinet. He poured himself a cup of water and sat at the table as though nothing happened, no explanation for his sudden disappearance and punctual return.

Confused but wise to keep her nose to herself, Micaiah silently dished his breakfast.

He watched quietly as she put the pan back over the fire without serving herself.

Bard sighed loudly at her self-starvation, a gesture that she pointedly ignored.

She simply stepped past him and retrieved her forest green dress from her room. Laying it neatly over her lap, she sat by the fire and threaded her needle delicately.

The feeling of Bard's eyes on her was as real as the sound of the fire crackling pleasantly next to her.

Without lifting her eyes, she raised an eyebrow, and somehow he knew it was for him.

It was enough to goad him to explain himself, though she already knew the purpose of his focus. "I haven't seen you eat in a few days."

Micaiah hmm'd softly, rocking herself with her foot.

Bard hesitated. "Micaiah, come here and eat."

She let her arched eyebrow fall and shook her head. "I am not hungry, my lord."

The stubborn willfulness in her voice made him consider stabbing himself with his crooked fork. Alas, then she'd have to patch him up and he would have given her another reason to put off eating.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. "Promise me you'll eat a meal tonight at the festival."

She pursed her lips. "I imagine the food will not be provided free of charge."

Bard narrowed his eyes at her. "Promise me, Micaiah."

She lifted her gaze to his, and nodded sedately. "Very well. I promise it."

His face brightened the room when a smile graced it.

Her features softened, but she came no closer to returning the smile.

Bard stood, taking his empty dishes to the basin. Micaiah put aside her stitching and went to get up, but he held out a hand. "Sit. Work. I will clean my dishes."

"My lord—"

His eyebrows lowered in a glare. "I will clean my dishes."

Complying, Micaiah bent over her work once again, humming an old Northern ditty that her mother had taught her.

She thought the gentle sloshing of the water and the snapping of the fire accompanied the tune well.

Gradually, as she stitched away, her humming gave way to singing.

"I never saw you fall

I thought I was alone

You always gave your all

I know no words are known

To tell you how I feel

For all the things you do

I want someone who's real

I'm lucky that it's you

You smile and it's not right

How it makes me want to sing

Your dances make me bright

This is the joy you bring

You bring me fields of roses

I place them in a jar

My heart, it never closes

From me you're never far

But then came the rain

And you were gone from me

I'll never see you again

But in my heart you'll always be

The song went on to tell the story of the woman never finding another love like the man who was killed. Despite the bleak lyrics, the song had a cheerful, happy tune.

And when Micaiah glanced up, she saw Bard's head nodding with the lilt of her voice and his shoulders rocking to and fro as though the song kindled some desire to dance.

As her voice continued the bittersweet music, Bard began to hum along with her, swaying discreetly as he washed his dishes.

Micaiah had never seen anyone respond thus to her music. Her most frequent reaction was the urging of others to quiet her purring voice while they were trying to work.

But when she heard his rich voice following along, and his head and shoulders moving, and the fork in his hand being tapped to the rhythm, a smile broke across her face before she could stop it.

And then a laugh bubbled up her throat.

Bard stopped everything and turned around at the alien noise. "Did you just laugh?"

Micaiah was staring at him. She had. She had laughed. And smiled. Her expression instantly locked down.

"If I did?" It scared her. There was a reason she kept herself from smiling. It was a firm boundary she had set for herself and she had broken past it.

Bard wiped his hands on a towel. "It is the first I have heard you laugh." He commented.

She fixed her stare stubbornly on her work. "Perhaps I have been to cold to bother with it."

Bard could have chuckled at her bitter, dismissal, but merely waved a hand. "Nevertheless, I have something for you."

Her eyes lifted, startled. "What?"

He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced something which he concealed in his hand. Slowly, suddenly not quite sure of himself, he uncovered a beautiful silver hair piece.

Micaiah's needle fell from her hand in her surprise. Her eyes were fixated on the skillfully engraved silver, her expression becoming awed.

Bard fumbled with his words. "Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered. I've no doubt you've crafted far better with your own hand. But I had it made for you anyway...and I made Reuben make it for you, if that's any consolation. The devil himself seemed to stoke the fire of Reuben's anger, but he made it."

The revelation brought a sadistic joy to Micaiah's heart. She'd never been given such a gift before, and never by a man.

It did not pain her to admit, too, that it warmed her to know that he had taken his own justice for Reuben's actions towards her.

"A sword or knife would be a more fitting gift for a woman of your skill, but I could not offend your talents by giving you one of our crude blades." Bard added thoughtfully.

Micaiah thought that rather silly, and put her work aside to stand. She looked cautiously at the hair piece.

"Nonsense." She refuted. "The craftsmen of your town are exceeding in their work. I find no fault in their pieces. But..." she blinked carefully, wanting very much to simply accept the beautiful jewel. "There is no need to spend such money on me. You did not have to give me anything."

Bard seemed to have expected this, and pressed it into her cold hands. "I wanted to give you something in return for you hard work. It is not free, if it pleases you to think it, but rather payment for your service."

Micaiah could not take her eyes off the device. "I have received my payment by being transported here by your father."

Bard scoffed. "You sell yourself at too small a price. I would not take advantage of a kind heart."

Tears of gratitude filled Micaiah's eyes as she bowed. "I have never received a gift before. I shall treasure this eternally."

She did not want to let go, but she found herself putting it back into Bard's hands, embarrassed. "Would you put it in?"

Bard was unusually quick to accept the request, explaining that his mother had often asked him to tend her hair for her as she washed laundry or mended sheets.

As his gentle fingers threaded through her long, dark hair, he asked: "How would you have it? You do not bind your hair like a human, nor plait it like an elf, nor braid it like a dwarf. I know a few variations of each. Do not ask me how, I fear I shall have to tell you endless tales of my childhood."

Micaiah was strangely cheerful as his smooth voice filled the house. "Pick one, if you please, my lord. I do not care which. As I never learned to braid, my hair has never been bound."

Bard's hands stopped. "I am surprised at the things you do not know."

She bit her lip. "Most are."

He put the matter aside and set to braiding. His, hands, though gentle, would often snag a knot and send sharp pain through Micaiah's tender scalp.

"Be careful, Bard. You are determined to remove my hair." She commented softly.

She felt his exaggerated movements as he bowed animatedly. "Yes, miss."

It did not take him long to braid her hair and fasten it elegantly with the pen, all the while responding comically to her quiet expressions of pain.

Nearly an hour later, Micaiah stood in her room and looked down at herself. Her forest green dress was fitting perfectly after her mending. The sleeves draped below her wrists and her skirt reached the floor.

She had scrubbed her face clean and lightly smeared scented oil on her skin.

When she pushed the partition back and stood before Bard, she was immediately bashful. His gaze rested on her for a time before he strode to her and offered her his arm. "You look very nice." He mumbled.

Micaiah did not let herself hide behind a bow. "Thank you."

The town was merry, lit by hundreds of lanterns and filled with music and laughter. All of the people were enjoying themselves in the town square.

Market booths were set up with wares, women cooked over fires, children ran after each other.

When they arrived, Bard felt embarrassed with the simplicity of it. "It is merely an annual festival. We celebrate nothing in particular."

"Do not explain yourself to me." Micaiah returned pleasantly. "It is a lovely festival."

Bard grinned down at her, but she merely squeezed his arm in return.

"Hail, Bowman! Come enter the contest!" The villager who spoke, Percy, waved one arm above his head, bow in hand, calling to Bard.

With some encouragement from Micaiah, Bard heeded the call and accepted the bow. In a number of minutes he was crowned winner against seven others, hitting ten targets that were set in ten foot increments.

Each arrow found its mark precisely in the center.

Bard returned to Micaiah, a new set of arrows in his hand, won as his trophy.

She nodded in awe. "I am impressed, my lord. I have never seen better shooting."

He laughed uncomfortably under her praise, and hid his inflated pride behind a humble smile. "Surely among the elves?"

Micaiah shrugged. "Rarely is there need for long range shooting. All of their archers shoot from close proximity. None have stretched their skill to meet yours."

The sound of swords clanging brought their attention.

"I have yet to see your legendary swordsmanship. Would you duel?" He asked, nudging her shoulder.

Micaiah ignored the swarm of warmth that flooded her body from where he touched her. "With you?" She asked dubiously.

"Of course not. I am not the best. Duel with Reuben." Bard urged.

She blinked at him. "I have already beaten Reuben. He threw me in an icy lake."

Bard merely smiled. "I have known Reuben to be the best swordsman in town for the past eight years. I would enjoy seeing you defeat him with my own eyes."

So she fought. She performed elegantly with all the strength of an elf and all the stamina of a dwarf, and beautifully beat Reuben once again.

When it came about that she was awarded the prize for her victory, a great clamor arose as the townspeople realized that the greatest bowman and the greatest swordsman in town were spending the day together.

Many men hooted and cajoled Bard for his fine choice of woman. Some of the ladies despised Micaiah in their hearts for her ability not only to wield a blade but also to reach Bard's heart.

Some women admired her and wished to be her in the most innocent, kind way they could manage.

All in all, when the sun was low in the sky, Micaiah the Swordsman and Bard the Bowman were known where they went and celebrated where they rested.

Finally, Bard invited her to sit with him by the lake, promising to protect her from Reuben's wrath should he make an appearance.

She sat with him, her muscles decidedly refusing to show her cold. Instead of sitting there shivering, she had her arms so relaxed they were about to fall from her shoulders.

"Why do you refuse to smile?" Bard asked quietly.

Micaiah met his gaze in the lantern light, inspecting his somber expression with pensive hesitance. "In my experience of seventeen years..." She sucked in a deep breath, not at all emotionally prepared for divulging information that had rested so closely to her heart for so long.

Bard remained quiet, waiting her out.

She gave in, his kindness weighing heavily on her thoughts. It would be ungrateful to refuse his question. "Smiles are only promises that haven't been broken yet."

He blinked.

He had not been expecting that answer. If she had asked him to guess why, he would have chanced saying that she was unamused by anything she'd seen during her time in his home, or maybe that she hated being there and only wanted to move on with her journey.

But, no, she had been damaged by kindness.

He silently begged her to explain, afraid of tearing open old wounds.

She understood his wordless plea. "My mom smiled more than anyone I knew. My dad used to make me laugh. The Prince...Legolas always made me smile. They're all gone now."

Bard's first reaction was to wonder who Prince Legolas was, but he restrained himself. He still could not see how she could alienate herself from such a thing. "But...how—what I mean is—"

She knew he had not been satisfied. He couldn't understand. How could she expect him to? Her voice was very soft when she spoke next. "I leave in just over a week. How can I let you make me smile?"

Finally, he saw.

She was protecting herself.

It warmed his heart to hear that she struggled with missing him when she left.

Nevertheless, it hurt to see the tears shining in her eyes.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

It was two months since the loss of her parents. Time numbed no pain as Micaiah stood in the market square, tending the smith's desk.

It used to be her father's business.

Her mother used to always be working in the back, making her way beside Micah.

But in the days that passed after their deaths, the shop had been taken under the management of two elven smiths who constantly argued and kept her around only because she made no noise and did her work diligently.

A hand tapped the desk, startling Micaiah back into focus. Her eyes landed on the ice blue ones that had comforted her so much in the past months.

His flaxen locks fell carelessly over his shoulder.

Since she had lost everything, he had denied a number of special treatments awarded to the Son of the King.

One of which had been the morning plaiting of his hair.

It did not go unnoticed by Micaiah that she had been right so many months ago - he did not know how to care for his own hair.

It did not bother her. It made her feel better about her perpetual case of rat's nest.

"Come, Micaiah." He summoned. "Walk with me."

She shook her head solemnly. "Apologies, my prince. I am on duty."

He leaned until he was looking over her shoulder, staring at one of the elves who stood over the forge. "I am in need of Micaiah's help. Please pardon my intrusion."

The elf looked up and instantly bowed. "As you wish, my prince."

Legolas gave Micaiah a pointed look and held out his hand.

Debating whether or not she should be in the company of anyone in her present mood, Micaiah simply stared at him.

He met her gaze and held it until at last she exited the shop and joined him.

They walked in silence until they were out of the city and into the forest. When Micaiah's eyes turned in the direction of the battlefield where her parents were killed, Legolas slipped his hand into hers.

Her heart fluttered despite its aching. She found his green eyes fixed on her.

"I am with you." He said simply.

She smiled. "I know."

They walked a little while longer, until they came to their favorite tree. Legolas paced around it comfortably while she leaned against its branches, soaking in the daylight.

"How comes the engagement?" Micaiah questioned absently, even though her own words were knives to her heart.

There was a disgusted scoff from the prince. "Father has forced me to entertain a battalion of suitors. Fortunately, neither of us liked any of them." A second passed, and then: "He is sending for Lord Elrond's daughter."

Micaiah frowned against the glaring sun to look him in the eyes. "Your countenance has fallen my prince. Why do your eyes mourn so?"

His feet ceased their pacing and his troubled expression turned to her. She could see the thoughts racing inside his head, but what they were remained a puzzle.

Legolas finally stepped closer to her, decided in his next words. "Do you remember when I said that I already had a bride in mind, but my father would not let me have her?"

Micaiah sighed, her mood darkening further. She hid her gloom and nodded. "Indeed I do. A lowly, Silvan elf, I presume?"

Legolas smiled softly, and Micaiah realized quite how close he was.

Her heart pounded heavily. She could smell the pine on his skin and the spring water from his clothes. Everything about him was intoxicating.

"The woman I love," he began in a gentle whisper. "Is no elf."

Micaiah understood what he meant only a second too late to speak. Her eyes were growing wide just as he pressed his lips to hers and smoothed his thumbs over her cheek.

Euphoria.

For the first time since that fateful day, Micaiah felt she could burst with joy. She sagged against him, prompting him to slide his arms around her waist and hold her tightly.

She'd never been kissed before.

She'd never been told that she was the object of a man's love.

It was a strange sensation, but not one that she did not enjoy.

Legolas eased back, and her eyes flicked open to ask why. When she saw that he was waiting for her response, she merely smiled sadly. "Your father will not let you have me."

Determination mixed with sorrow mixed his expression. His eyes glistened, looking suspiciously like they were filling with tears.

He kissed her again, and refused to let her go.

~ Daughter of Steel ~

Bard and Micaiah walked home by moonlight, their quiet chatter filling the cold air.

"I don't see how you can live here. It's so cold and so wet all the time. How can you bear it? Do you not long for grass? For trees and dry dirt?" Micaiah wondered, looking at the bleak stone and wood that was shrouded by shadows.

Bard chuckled lowly. "You forget that my newest occupation is hunting. I have to leave Laketown to do so. I find trees and grass there, though the weather is hardly different at this time of year."

He paused, listening to the soft scuff of his boots and the patting of her bare feet.

"Of course," he added. "You would be warmer if you wore shoes."

Micaiah's skin crawled. "Tempting, but the incentive should have to be far stronger than mere warmth."

He was surprised by the fervor of her answer, even as she shivered beside him. "Why do you not cover your feet?"

"Why should I? I can feel the earth on my feet. I have long since toughened the skin." She had no reason for tight, sweaty shoes. There was elegance without them. She couldn't imagine living as she did with her feet confined to stiff leather and wooden shoes.

Bard shook his head at her.

The difference between them was simple, but noticeable. He was heavily cloaked for the cold, and his hair was always neatly contained.

She was barefoot, her dress light, and only just that evening wore her hair somehow other than loose and tangled.

She was certainly the most peculiar girl he'd ever met.

The next day, Micaiah was feeding Sigrid when Bard came in from feeding Mylanry.

"Good morning, my lord." Micaiah greeted, turning from the fire place to see him.

But Bard was deadbolting the door and pushing the kitchen cabinet against it.

Micaiah stiffened. "What are you doing?" She pulled the bottle out of Sigrid's mouth.

If Bard was planning on hurting her, she could put Sigrid in her crib and have her sword out in seconds.

But Bard was not the threat. "Orcs." He panted, sending icy fear through her. "A whole army of orcs on Laketown's doorstep."


End file.
